Hyandur smiled at that, as if at a private joke the two of them shared.
Grander’s house was built all on one level. There was very little furniture inside, though what there was—a few tables—was beautifully, though simply made.
“You know the way. I’ll send Marlen to you with the hot water as soon as it’s ready. Sarlin will bring you mulled ale.”
“I thank you for your courtesy to the weary traveler,” Hyandur said. “Come, Cilarnen.”
THE chamber at the back of the house was small by the standards Cilarnen was used to. It held a stove in one corner, a clothespress for storing clothes, a table, and a washstand with basin and ewer.
There was no bed at all. Cilarnen stared around in confusion.
“Few who are not Centaurs come to Stonehearth,” Hyandur said, as if that were an explanation. He removed his cloak and gloves and set them in the clothespress, then turned to the stove.
As Cilarnen stood in the middle of the room, hesitating, there was a tap at the door. Before he could make up his mind what to do, it opened, and another Centaur walked in.
There was no doubt at all that this one was female. All she wore was a thin woolen blouse, heavily and colorfully embroidered. She was as opulently female as the figurehead on a Selken Trader’s vessel, and her long, cream-blonde hair exactly matched the color of her horse-body. There were bright ribbons braided into her tail, their colors matching the embroidery on her shirt.
In one hand she carried a large, brightly-colored earthenware pitcher, its contents steaming, and in the other, two wooden mugs. Flung across her back was a pile of cloth.
“Ah, Hyandur, you’ll never get that balky thing to light,” she said cheerfully. “Let me—and drink up while the ale’s hot. Grander would never forgive me if I let you wait until it went cold.”
“Then we must not allow you to fall into disgrace, Sarlin,” Hyandur answered. Cilarnen realized with a distant sense of surprise that Hyandur actually liked these creatures. He considered them to be his friends.
Well, you could hardly expect better of an Elf, he supposed doubtfully.
Sarlin walked past Cilarnen—who was still staring—and set the pitcher and mugs down on the table. Hyandur straightened up from his crouch before the stove and relieved her of the bundles of cloth, tossing one to Cilarnen. It fell in a heap at his feet.
Sarlin knelt—with more grace than Cilarnen would have expected—before the stove, and began to rummage purposefully about its interior. Hyandur moved to the table, and poured two mugs full of the steaming ale. He brought one to Cilarnen.
“Drink. And do not stare at her so. She’s Grander’s daughter.”
“Oh, I don’t mind a bit of staring,” Sarlin said cheerfully over her shoulder. “But I’ll kick him into next Harvest if he tries anything. I’ve heard about those City sorcerers and their ways. Tried to drive us off our own lands, they did! Ah, that’s got it.” She got to her feet, closing the door of the stove and brushing her hands clean of ash.
“I’m not a sorcerer,” Cilarnen said, very quietly. He wasn’t quite sure what that was, but it sounded bad.
“He’s been Outlawed,” Hyandur said. “I believe they take away their magic when they do that.”
“Oh!” Sarlin turned to face Cilarnen, her broad inhuman features filled with sympathy. “Did they do that to you? How horrible!”
If there had been any place to run to, Cilarnen would have gone there. If he’d still had his Magegift and his wand, he would have happily reduced both Hyandur and Sarlin to a pile of ash. The one thing he was certain of was that he wasn’t going to accept sympathy from a talking horse—or the next best thing to one, anyway.
He pulled off his gauntlets quickly, took the mug, and drank. He’d never tasted ale in his life, and it was filled with unfamiliar spices, but anything was better than having to answer her. He gulped it down, holding his breath to avoid tasting the foul bitter stuff, and felt its heat fill his belly. He hoped it poisoned him.
“He doesn’t talk much. Maybe he’s simpleminded,” Sarlin suggested.
“Perhaps he’ll talk later,” Hyandur said.
She tossed her head. “Well! Father will certainly want to hear all about what they’re planning to do next in the City, so I hope he knows.” With another flirt of her tail, she walked out again.
Cilarnen rubbed his eyes with his free hand. He felt very much as if he ought to sit down, but there weren’t any chairs. And the stove seemed to suddenly be putting out a great deal of heat. He undid his cloak and let it fall to the floor as well, then walked carefully over to the nearest wall and leaned against it.
“You will find things very different here than your life in Armethalieh,” Hyandur said. He seemed to be trying to tell Cilarnen something, but Cilarnen wasn’t sure what it was.
Cilarnen slid carefully down the wall and sat on the floor. He set his mug down on the floor beside him and pressed both hands against his face as hard as he could. Maybe the ale had poisoned him, but his constant headache seemed to be going away, just a little.
“There aren’t any chairs,” he said. It seemed particularly important that Hyandur understand that fact.
“You are not accustomed to strong drink,” the Elf observed dispassionately.
“Mageborn do not drink,” Cilarnen told him grandly. It was what they told the Commons, after all. The Commons believed that the Mageborn existed on nothing but air, pure well water, and Communion with the Light, so the saying went. But his power had been stripped from him, and he’d been cast out from the City. Could he even call himself Mageborn any longer?
Hyandur seemed to sigh, and went to place Cilarnen’s discarded cloak in the clothespress.
A few moments later Marlen arrived, bringing Hyandur’s packs. He was not alone. Two more Centaurs accompanied him—one carrying a large copper tub, and the other with his arms filled with towels and with two large kegs of steaming water slung across his back. They deposited their burdens in front of the stove and left again.
“If there’s anything else you need, just shout,” Marlen said. He glanced at Cilarnen, and frowned. “A Healer, or … anything.”
“You are most kind, as always,” Hyandur said.
When Marlen left, Hyandur drew the latch and began filling the tub. By then Cilarnen felt less dizzy. In fact, he felt better than he had since the City gates had closed behind him.
He got to his feet and walked over to the pitcher, pouring himself a careful half-mug of the ale. He knew about getting drunk—though his infrequent—and unauthorized—experiments had been with the wine from his father’s cellars, and not with ale, which in Armethalieh was strictly something in which the Commons indulged. While he had no intention of getting drunk in the middle of a bunch of talking animals, he liked being free of pain.
“You dislike the taste, yet you drink more of it,” Hyandur. remarked.
“It makes my head stop hurting,” Cilarnen said. He didn’t know why he felt the need to explain himself to Hyandur, but the creature had saved his life, so he supposed he owed the Elf common courtesy.
“And your head has hurt for a long time.”
“Since I left the City. Or before that. I can’t remember.” Cilarnen raised the mug and drank. The ale still tasted vile, but he supposed he’d better get used to it.
“I have no skill in healing, but the Healer here is excellent. Perhaps she can craft a potion to ease your pain. Now we will bathe, and eat. Perhaps that will help as well.”
As he spoke, Hyandur was removing his clothing, setting each piece neatly aside, and Cilarnen finally realized that Hyandur not only intended to bathe, but to bathe right in front of him.
He looked around desperately, but there was still nowhere to go. If he left the room, he’d be outside with a bunch of Centaurs, and that was unthinkable. So he did the only thing he could think of. He refilled his mug to the very top, draining the jug, and retreated to the far corner of the room.
By the time he’d fin
ished that mug as well, everything had taken on a strange unreality. It seemed perfectly reasonable to take off his own clothes at Hyandur’s insistence and climb into the cramped tub. It felt good to be clean again after uncounted days of sleeping and waking in the same clothes, and if the soap was harsh and foul-smelling in comparison to what he was used to, it did its job.
When he climbed out again and toweled himself dry in front of the stove, he put on the house-robe that Sarlin had brought. It was fur-lined, and fell past his knees. He still had to wear his own boots with it, but that didn’t seem so bad. He was clean.
And maybe talking animals weren’t so bad after all. Cilarnen liked horses.
HYANDUR guided him carefully down to dinner afterward. The dining table was as immense as anything that might be found in a Great House, and so high that Cilarnen thought it was going to be rather difficult to eat at, until he noticed two stools, obviously placed for his and Hyandur’s use.
The food was what Cilarnen supposed coarse peasant food must be like—roasts and meat-pies and hot bread and dishes of preserved vegetables, all served without ceremony—and no one exhibited anything approaching proper table manners. The table-talk among the dozen or so Centaurs gathered there was rowdy and entirely impolite—if Grander was the patriarch of this peculiar family, then he certainly didn’t seem to care whether people showed him proper respect or not.
It only proved, Cilarnen supposed, that the Other Races simply didn’t have the same advantages as the inhabitants of the Golden City, though they did all seem to be enjoying themselves. He felt something that wasn’t exactly homesickness—as this was entirely outside his experience—but he still felt as if he’d lost something that he didn’t have any words for and was only now discovering it. The sensation frightened him.
But the food was hot and plentiful, and Grander kept encouraging him to eat more, and for the first time since that dreadful night in the cellar when the Stone Golems had come for him and his friends, Cilarnen discovered that he actually had an appetite.
After what Sarlin had said back in the room, he’d expected to be interrogated about the City and its plans, but to his relief, nobody asked him anything. And tomorrow he and Hyandur would be gone from this disturbing place.
After the meal was eaten, Hyandur suggested he go off to bed, and Cilarnen was glad enough to get away from the Centaurs to accept the Elf’s suggestion readily, even though it still bothered him when the Elf gave him orders. When he returned to the room, he found that the bath-things had been cleared away, and two large piles of furs and blankets had been carefully laid out on the floor. Not proper beds, but after having slept for so long on the frozen ground, a soft pallet out of the wind and the snow seemed like paradise. Cilarnen chose the one nearest the window, rolled himself up in a couple of blankets, and was instantly asleep.
He awoke to the sunlight streaming through the slats of the shuttered windows and sat up groggily. He looked around, expecting to find Hyandur still asleep on the other furs.
But Hyandur was gone—as were his packs and everything he had brought with him.
Cilarnen’s own City clothes were there—clean and neatly folded. He dressed quickly and ran from the room.
The first person he encountered was Sarlin. She was working on a piece of embroidery at a large standing frame.
“Good morrow, Cilarnen,” she greeted him cheerfully, just as if nothing were wrong.
“I—He—The Elf—Hyandur—Where is he?” Cilarnen gasped out.
Sarlin looked faintly puzzled. “Why, he left at first light. Grander urged him to stay, of course, but he said he had news to carry that would not wait.” She regarded him for a moment. “Surely you did not expect to go with him?”
Cilarnen stared at her in shock, realizing that, somewhere deep inside, he’d expected exactly that. “He left me here,” he said flatly.
“Well, you couldn’t expect him to take you into the Elven Lands, now, could you?” Sarlin said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “But he made sure that you would have a place in Grander’s house. He says you are good with horses. You can work in the stables. He said you won’t know much, but don’t worry, we can teach you. Come spring, you can help with the plowing—and at Spring Fair, if you want to go to another village, why, no one will stop you. What could be fairer? Marlen is even making you a chair. Hyandur said you like chairs.” She smiled encouragingly.
Cilarnen took a deep breath as his world crumbled around him once more. I can work in the stables. In the spring, I can help with the plowing. He felt like screaming.
But he was a Volpiril. Even here, even now. His father had taught him that it was important not to make enemies without cause, and to be courteous to one’s inferiors, because they could not help being inferior.
Of course, Lord Volpiril had not meant those teachings to apply to Lesser Races. But Sarlin could not help being a Centaur.
“Thank you,” he said, though those were the hardest words he’d ever had to say. His headache was back full force, making it hard to see. He rubbed at his eyes, wishing everything weren’t so bright.
“Come into the kitchen. I’ll get you a bowl of porridge—I’m sure there’s some left over from breakfast. Then I’ll take you to the Healer—Hyandur said we should do that, too. Then you can go to the stables, and Marlen can get you started on your work.”
Cilarnen nodded, barely hearing her words. It hardly mattered what these creatures did to him.
Hyandur had left him here alone. And now he truly knew what that word meant.
AS far as Vestakia could sense, they were no longer even being followed, and that made no sense to Kellen. Why would Shadow Mountain go to so much trouble to kidnap Sandalon and the other children, and then not even try to recapture them? It made no sense at all—and that made Kellen feel as if he was missing something important.
The storm blew over after a day or two, and the weather cleared again, and after that, everyone could see Ancaladar flying overhead.
The dragon was an awe-inspiring sight. Kellen never grew tired of watching him as he dipped and swirled through the open sky. He wondered what it would be like to ride upon Ancaladar’s back, to see the world from that great height.
He also wondered how much a dragon ate. Something that size certainly wouldn’t be satisfied with a goat or two.
Cows, probably. Lots of cows.
ONCE they were within a few hours of the city, Kellen decided it was safe enough to send messengers ahead to let the city know they were coming, and that the children were safe.
And that they’d brought a dragon with them. He hoped Andoreniel and Ashaniel would be willing to have him come and live in Sentarshadeen. They’d welcomed Vestakia, after all.
The caravan was met at the edge of the unicorn meadow by Andoreniel, Ashaniel, and many others, including the parents of the rescued children. The unicorn riders—including Kellen and also Vestakia—waited a little distance away from the main group, watching the joyful reunions of parents and children.
He wanted to share their joy—he truly did—but it was as if there were a veil between him and the glad celebration taking place in front of him. He knew that the presence of the Shadowed Elves was not yet general knowledge, but by now everyone in Sentarshadeen knew that the caravan taking the children to the Fortress of the Crowned Horns had been attacked. Why didn’t they see that the war had already begun—a war of a different kind than any they had ever fought before?
“You’re just tired,” Shalkan told him.
“I don’t have time to be tired,” Kellen answered with a sigh. He dismounted and stood in the snow beside his friend. “We have to make plans—to get ready. And don’t ask me for what, because I don’t know.”
“That does make it harder to plan,” Shalkan agreed, leaning against him.
“Maybe that’s the whole point,” Kellen said glumly.
IN twos and threes, the others departed, but Kellen remained. Idalia was transferred to
a small sleigh, and taken off with Vestakia and the two Healers, but Jermayan did not go with her. Instead, he rode over to where Kellen and Shalkan waited, alone now in the snow.
“I have spoken to Andoreniel and Ashaniel,” Jermayan, said without preamble. “They have said that Ancaladar is welcome in Sentarshadeen.” He glanced up at the sky, but at the moment the dragon wasn’t visible. Even when they’d reached Sentarshadeen, Ancaladar hadn’t landed. Kellen got the idea he wouldn’t come down until he was invited.
“Good,” Kellen said. “It would be nice to know how we can tell him.”
“He’s coming,” Shalkan said, looking eastward.
Both Kellen and Jermayan looked in the direction Shalkan had indicated. A tiny black dot was visible on the horizon. It swiftly grew larger, taking on the by now familiar dragon shape.
For the first time, Kellen was actually able to watch Ancaladar land. For something so large, the dragon was surprisingly graceful. When he was directly above them, he simply spread his great wings as wide as they would go and floated to the ground.
Valdien backed up nervously a few steps, but Jermayan patted his neck soothingly, speaking to him in a low voice, and the stallion quieted. Jermayan dismounted, leading the Elven destrier a little farther away from the dragon.
Ancaladar settled neatly to the snow and folded his wings across his back.
“So,” he said.
“So,” Jermayan answered, gazing at the dragon.
And Kellen had the odd sense that something was happening.
IT was the Elf.
Ancaladar stared enraptured into dark eyes and felt the pull of long-dormant instincts rousing. Here was his match. Here was the one who would be the conduit for his magic; his heart’s twin, his Bondmate, to whom his life and his heart would be linked.
To Light a Candle Page 35
